En Vogue
by Gryphon2
Summary: Just a short unstory that occurred while I was trying to finish a story. It mostly follows the book canon. I kinda like it-hope you do to.


Thomas Harris owns Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling. :-p

Lecter's mental state when he meets Starling for the first time.  Mostly by the book and the most fun I've had writing Hfic.

*  *  *

He turned the page, no longer amused that the bindings of his periodicals were removed as a precautionary security measure.  His gaze lingered on the graceful lines of the model's breasts as she leaned back, draping her naked form across a tree branch.  He imagined the thoughts behind the heavy-lidded eyes while the sensuous gaze was directed at the camera lens.  Likely she was wondering why she had left her comfortable bed that morning to be stripped and painted and displayed for all the world to see.  No doubt the mantra "It's Vogue" played over and over in her mind as the rough bark scraped her back, and the lurid P.A. touched up her body makeup more often than was necessary.

He heard footsteps approaching his cell as he turned the page, pausing at the elegant vision.  The Yves Saint Laurent suit at first seemed at odds with the fresh-faced model.  The woman's face was unlined, but her expression belied her age; it bespoke experience.  The look gave her an air of competence that allowed her to carry off the austere, almost masculine, elegance of the smoking suit, despite her freckles.  Hannibal Lecter silently congratulated the art director who had wisely chosen the less obvious model for effect.

Although he continued turning the loose sheets, his thoughts remained on the face that had betrayed a degree of sadness; it intrigued him, and he felt his own sadness deepen at his incapacitation.  Were he free in the world, he would seek out the woman and learn what haunted her.  The prospect of his future loomed bleakly before him and he wondered if he would outlive Barney.

With these thoughts, he turned the final page and looked up to find a reserved young woman observing him.  Her attractive face was tinged with both youthful hope and sadness.  Molecules seek like molecules: her sadness met his, and brought with it some hope.

*  *  *

Soon-to-be Special Agent Clarice Starling left him at last and he lay on his cot, retreating to his palace. 

The girl had surprised him three times during their brief meeting, although she really had little to do with the first time.  It was merely serendipitous timing, a fresh face, and a little sadness that made her, at first glance, a surprisingly accessible version of his fantasy woman.  However, when she'd responded to his barbs with admirable sagacity and withstood a horrid indecency with respectable fortitude, she'd personally shouldered the responsibility of his interest.

She was simply interesting.

He had no doubt she would return, and his immediate future seemed much more appealing than it had only an hour ago.  She would find his Valentine gift.  For the three surprises she had afforded him today, he felt he owed her more; Hannibal Lecter knew the importance of symmetry.  Upon her return, she would have two more gifts awaiting her.  When the three gifts to her served a dual purpose as gifts to himself, Lecter was gladdened.  It seemed they shared something.

Three gifts.  He thought of Magi and stars, of time and places, and of fate and graces.  Out of his whimsical dance of thought, a plan emerged.  He would be in the world again.  His savior had come.

Hours later, deep in the night, the daily bedlam had subsided and the only sounds to be heard were the agonized weeping of one man and the whispers of another while he sketched a beatific face on the image of the crucifixion of the lamb of God.

*  *  *

He watched her as she sat shivering before him.  She was so clever for one so young.  Perhaps it was best he not give her the sketch of the clock face, she might very well decipher his meaning.  He would not jeopardize his escape, not even to satisfy his curiosity about her cognitive abilities.  It was too bad she was FBI.  

Three.  Could he make her deny her master thrice before they were through?  Ah, there.  She'd accepted the towel.  He knew the rules:  don't accept anything from him, don't give him personal information, and don't approach the bars.

He found her company scintillating and would gladly have made the effort to know her better outside of these circumstances.  He saw no reason to deny himself the pleasure within their circumstances.  He tested the waters, using a word he'd never voiced to a woman.  She merely smiled and jabbed back, and he was doubly glad that Miggs had been made a gift to her.

She left, and the wheels were in motion.  She knew he could give her Buffalo Bill and she would do what she had to.  When next he saw her, he would make her break rule number two…

*  *  *

The offer wasn't nearly as enticing as her smile while she worked, cajoling him into cooperation.  She gave in to his demands for information rather easily, and her candor elevated her to a new level in his estimation.  As one who expertly delved into the deepest secrets of troubled people, he recognized the rarity of her courage and was bemused by her trust.  Trust coexists with respect, something he was rather starved for these days.  Perhaps he would spare her, after all, when he made her break deadly rule number three.

He changed his mind later, when he endured Chilton's rancid breath as he spoke of her betrayal.  However, he quickly laid aside his plans for retribution when new opportunity for escape glimmered on his horizon.  Nothing else mattered. 

He uttered the words that would deliver him from his prison.

*  *  *

Freedom was only hours away.  The Senator was very unhappy with him.  Her unhappy face in the YSL suit made him unreasonably gleeful.

*  *  *

He recognized the pattern and weight of her footfalls as she approached.  She'd come to him of her own volition, seemingly believing she could appeal to his humanity.  He hadn't planned on actually helping them retrieve Catherine Martin, and he certainly had no reason to now, but something inexplicable made him give her the information she sought.  Perhaps it was his vague regret at what he was going to do to her life.  He had no immediate plans for her, but he knew he would someday see her properly attired at the proper age.  What he would do with her then, he had no idea.  He was honest enough with himself to admit he was enamored of her.  From the first, their relationship was a fanciful oddity.

And now, the story of her lambs—well, the whimsical doctor accepted this as a sign.  He bade her farewell with a brush of skin as she defiantly broke rule three, and somewhere on earth, he knew, a crow cawed.


End file.
